Illusion of Peace
by Random Phantom
Summary: When a skeleton is found in a ditch near a canal, the case is all too familiar to Sergeant Lewis. When Morse investigates further, they are plunged into the nightmare world of a serial killer. Can they catch him - or worse - will he catch them first?
1. Chapter 1

Illusion of Peace

A/N: The usual disclaimers apply. If you read this story, I'd be grateful if you would review and let me know - it seems I'm the only person writing this stuff at the moment, it would be nice to know I'm not the only one reading it! Feedback is always appreciated. I do not have a proof reader, so mistakes are my own fault.

~*~

Chief Inspector Morse reached up and loosened his tie, as he leaned back in his office chair, contemplating the days' crossword puzzle in the _Times_ newspaper. It had not been a particularly difficult one, so he was entertaining himself by altering some of the clues to make it more difficult. It had been a quiet couple of weeks, and this was fine with Morse. A Styrofoam cup of rapidly cooling tea sat by his elbow on the desk, and he reached for it, taking a sip, ignoring the bitter taste that indicated that it had been brewed for too long and did not have enough sugar in it. He sighed, scribbled a note next to one of the clues, and considered writing to the newspaper to suggest that they look for better puzzle-writers.

His reverie was interrupted by a sudden knock on the door, but he did not look up as the door opened. There were very few people who dared to knock on the door and then walk in uninvited.

"Morning, sir," Sergeant Lewis said, with a quick smile, "Sorry to interrupt, but we've had a call in – there's a body been found in a bin-bag, in a drainage ditch near the canal – Dr Russell is already on her way."

Morse folded up the newspaper and cast it aside without another thought. He stood up and straightened his tie, stepping around the desk.

"What do we know so far?" he asked, leading the way towards his car.

"Not much," Lewis admitted, "a bloke cleaning some of the ditches and the lock overflow systems called it in. Two constables went down to check it out, and they called for CID. Apparently, the body's been there for some time – there's not a lot left."

"There's probably more there than they think," Morse replied, dourly, "come on then – I'll drive, and you can navigate."

~*~

Morse ended up having to park his distinctive Jaguar in a pub car park, in order to walk along the canal towpath. They had to walk some distance, and Morse grew impatient.

"How much further?" he demanded, after about half an hour.

"Just around the corner, I think, sir," Lewis replied, patiently, "ah – here we are."

He pointed down the towpath, to where a white tent could just be seen poking out of the greenery and trees along the bank of the canal. Morse and Lewis headed towards it, and a uniformed police constable stepped forward to greet them.

"Morning, sir," he said, politely, to Morse, "Dr Russell is with the body at the moment. It's quite muddy back there, sir."

The constable indicated his own muddy shoes and trousers with an air of distaste. Morse growled something imperceptible, and Lewis hid a smile.

"Thanks, Joe," the sergeant smiled, "anything useful from the bloke who reported it?"

"Nothing much," the constable replied, with a shake of his head, and pointed down the canal, "between these two locks either side of us runs a drainage ditch behind this tree line – it's kind of an overflow system – it stops this bit between the two locks from flooding in heavy rain, or if the boaters forget to close the top lock properly before they fill it. The water runs out from this middle bit and joins the lower part of the canal via the drainage ditch."

"And that's where the body is?"

"Yes, sir - tied up in a couple of bin bags and dumped in the ditch. Apparently, weights in the bag kept it from washing away. I'm afraid there's not much left – just a skeleton. The bloke who was cleaning the ditch – his name's Bob Lethbridge – came across the bag and opened it to see what it was. Got a bit of a shock, I think."

Morse glanced across to the nervous-looking middle-aged man, who was talking to a female constable further down the towpath.

"Keep him here," Morse ordered, "I'm going to want to talk to him. Come on, Lewis – let's get this over with."

Lewis obligingly ducked into the crime scene tent, and held back the flap for Morse. As the Chief Inspector straightened up, he surveyed the interior. The Scene of Crime Officers, or SOCOs for short, had used one of their larger tents, putting it up as best they could between the trees, stretching it back some way into the greenery, over the drainage ditch, and pitching it on the other side. A tarpaulin had been spread over the ground in an effort to keep the mud at bay, but the ditch was left open. The sour smell of mud and stagnant water hung in the musty interior of the tent, but Morse was grateful to note that the usual smell of death and decomposition did not appear to be present. He took a few steps towards the back of the tent.

"This looks interesting," he commented.

Dr Russell glanced up. She wore a white forensic overall, topped off with green Wellington boots. She was crouching in about a foot of murky brown canal water, looking less than amused.

"You wouldn't be saying that if you were down here, Morse," she replied, not getting up, "pay attention, now, because I'm only going to run through this once."

From the corner of his eye, Morse saw Lewis jotting down notes as the doctor spoke.

"What have we got, then?" he asked, forcing himself to step closer to take a look.

It was a sorry sight – the bin bag had been torn open, and inside was the visible remains of a skeleton, partially obscured in the water that had seeped in.

"I'm not totally sure yet," Russell replied, pushing back a wisp of blonde hair from her forehead with the back of a gloved hand, "the remains are skeletal, virtually no flesh left, though some traces of hair – long hair, colour indeterminate at the moment. Everything's pretty mud-stained. I'd say the body has been here for a year at least. I've had a quick look at it, and from the shape of the pelvis, I'd say it was female, probably mid-twenties. The bin bags were tied off with a cable tie – I've found similar ties in the inner bin bag. There were three bags around her in all. Here you go…"

Russell held up two evidence bags, which Morse reached out and took. Sure enough, there were two fastened cable ties, black ones, stained with mud.

"Restraints?" Morse guessed.

"I'd say so," Russell agreed, "From the looks of it, your victim was tied up, killed, and dumped here. Not a convenient spot – your killer had to travel some distance to get here."

"So I noticed," Morse replied, dryly, "cause of death?"

"So far, undetermined," Russell told him, standing up, "I'll know more when I've got her back to the lab and reassembled the skeleton. Okay, guys – let's get it out of here. Careful now – don't drop anything. And I want a fingertip search of this ditch area. The chances are some of the smaller bones may have been washed away, but let's sift through the mud at the bottom and see what we can find. Morse, I'll call you when I know anything."

"Thank you, doctor," Morse nodded, "come on, Lewis – let's talk to Mr Lethbridge."

~*~

"Please, just call me Bob."

Bob was a middle-aged man, probably late forties, with greying brown hair, grey-blue eyes and a heavily lined face with a stubbly grey bristle across his jaw. He was about 5 foot 6, and thin to the point of emaciation – his green waders looked two sizes too big for him.

"Okay, Bob," Lewis nodded, "what were you doing down here?"

"I'm employed by British Waterways, you see," Bob replied, in a slightly Scouse accent, "these overflow ditches often get clogged up with plants, mud, silt, bricks, rubbish – you name it, it washes up in here."

"Like dead bodies?" Lewis raised his eyebrows.

"Now, that one's a first for me," Bob admitted, "I've been working on the canals for twenty-three years, and that's a new one on me."

"Take me through what happened."

"I was clearing away some rubbish and weeds," he replied, indicating a black bin bag nearby, "when I saw the tied up bag, I figured some boater had dumped a bag of rubbish. I went to move it to put it with my bags, but as I picked it up it tore – that was when I saw the bones. I used my mobile to call you guys in."

"What happens to the bags when they're full?" Lewis asked, "you can't possibly carry them all back to a car yourself."

"No," Bob shook his head, "there's a dredger due along here in a few days time – the boaters are complaining about the boats scraping the mud banks in the lock basin, so Waterways are going to dredge this section of canal. The dredger will pick up the bags as they pass through. That's why I was cleaning the ditches – the dredgers can't do that."

"How often is the dredging done?" Lewis asked.

Bob shrugged; "Along here? I think it was last done about five years ago."

"Would that be the last time the ditch was cleaned?"

"Probably – can't remember if it was me that did it though. There're only a few blokes around here that do that sort of work. Or else community service folks do it."

Lewis glanced back at the tent. It was clear that if the SOCOs had not pushed back or cut away the greenery, the ditch would not even be visible from the towpath. It was hardly surprising that the body could have lain undiscovered for so long, especially if the bag had been partially submerged in water for that length of time.

"We're going to need you to come down to the station and make a full statement," Lewis told him, "in the meantime, if you do remember anything else, please contact me."

Lewis handed him a card with the number on it, thanked him for his help, and joined Morse at the canal side. He reported back, in summary, what little he had learned, and Morse nodded his understanding.

"We'll need to wait for Dr Russell's report and the forensic findings before we can do much," Morse commented, as they walked back to the car, "get a full statement from Lethbridge as soon as you can. I also want you to start checking missing persons files for young women between the age of twenty and thirty who would have been reported missing about a year ago. What time is it?"

Lewis checked his watch quickly; "Twelve-fifteen, sir."

"Good. Let's go for a drink while we wait for Dr Russell's report, shall we?"

~*~

It was early evening before Dr Russell called them in to the pathology lab. She greeted them as they entered, and immediately led them through to the laboratory, where the skeletal remains had been arranged on one of the autopsy tables.

"She's definitely female," Russell announced, folding her arms and frowning down at the skeleton thoughtfully, "I'm sticking to my early to mid-twenties estimate. Several bits are missing – probably washed away – but the main parts are virtually intact."

"Enough to establish a cause of death?" Morse asked.

"Sort of," Russell replied, cagily, "so far, I've identified two possible causes of death – your victim had two broken vertebrae in her neck – consistent with violent strangulation. I also found knife marks on her ribs – multiple stab wounds. It looks like a frenzied attack. I counted at least twenty separate wounds. There's no way to tell if they were pre- or post-mortem, but any of them could have caused her death. The presence of the cable ties indicate that her wrists and ankles were bound. She was probably killed fifteen to eighteen months ago, I'd say, although the bacteria in the canal water could have speeded up the decomposition – it could have been as little as eleven months ago, but that's as short a time frame as possible under the conditions, I would think."

"What else can you tell us?"

"She was about five foot nine, long blonde hair, no obvious deformities or distinctive features," Russell shrugged, "Statistically, as she had naturally blonde hair, her eyes would probably have been blue. Her skull is very symmetrical – I'd imagine she was quite good looking."

Morse was secretly impressed that this much information could be gleaned from looking at the sorry skeletal figure now before them.

"I'll have more for you when the toxicology results come back on the hair and bone fragments I sent in," she told them, "now, let's move on to the forensics… I found a couple of interesting things in the inner bin bag, which I've sent to the labs. I've got pictures for you here though…"

She crossed over to a desk, where three A4 glossy prints were laid out.

"These bricks were used to weigh down the bag," she indicated the first picture, showing four ordinary red house bricks, "a lack of cement or anything on the bricks suggests they were new at the time, unused, probably taken from a building project or stolen from a building site. Fairly generic, a bit of a dead end, really. Secondly, something more interesting – a sterling silver charm bracelet. This is fairly distinctive, could be used to identify your victim. Finally, a silver hair grip – again, plain and fairly generic, but might help with ID."

"Is there anything else we need to know?" Morse asked, as Lewis gathered up the photographs.

"I couldn't find any cloth or fibres – and a human body decays faster than a pair of shoes or a coat. Your victim was naked when she was dumped, which might indicate she was sexually assaulted – why strip the body just to dump it, and why redress it if it's already naked? As I've said, she was probably an attractive girl. Maybe that goes to motive? I don't know – that's your department."

"Thank you, doctor," Morse nodded, "call me if you find anything else."

"Of course," Russell nodded, "let me know if there's anything else you need."

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

Morse decided to sleep on the case for a night while they had so little to go on. He arrived the next morning at the station, to find that Lewis was already there, seated at his desk in the office they shared, and he had apparently been there for some time. There were files and paperwork piled up all over the desk – it seemed Lewis had spent some time down in the archives. With his jacket draped over the back of his chair and his shirt sleeves rolled up, there was a small frown of concentration on his face as Morse hung his own coat on the hanger by the door.

"Morning, sir," Lewis said, glancing up quickly.

"Lewis," Morse nodded in greeting, depositing a newspaper onto his desk and dropping heavily into his chair, gesturing to the piles of folders on the sergeant's desk, "what on earth is all this?"

Lewis put his hand on one pile, and moved it across to each separate pile as he spoke; "National missing persons matching our victim's description between nine months and two years ago; possible good matches; rejections; and these two…"

Lewis trailed off, as he picked up the two files and stood up, crossing over to Morse's desk.

"These two files belonged to Chief Inspector Bell," Lewis said, quietly, "sir… I think I've seen this before."

Morse frowned. DCI Bell had been Lewis's supervising officer before Morse had taken the sergeant under his own wing, so to speak.

"Explain," he ordered, leaning back in his chair.

Lewis pushed some files out of the way and sat down on the corner of his own desk. He held out one of the files to Morse, who accepted it and flicked it open.

"Her name was Christina D'Archon," Lewis recalled, his voice a little distant, "she was twenty-three years old. Her body was found naked, tied up, and stuffed in several layers of bin bags in a rubbish bin behind a pub. She'd been tied up, strangled, raped, and then stabbed multiple times. The bag, her wrists and ankles were tied up with cable ties. She'd been dead about three days when she was discovered."

"That sounds familiar," Morse muttered, leafing past the grisly crime-scene photographs, "when was this?"

"About four years ago," Lewis replied, holding out the second file, "This was Lisa Young, a twenty-one-year-old model visiting Oxford for a photo-shoot. She was found about three years ago, again, naked, restrained with cable ties, in four black bags, similar cause of death, dumped in a canal lock. We only found her when the lock was drained for repairs – she was identified by her dental records. She'd been down there for about two years."

"You worked on these cases?"

"I was still a DC at the time of the first, and a DS by the second," Lewis replied, with a quick nod, "but, yes. I did a lot of the legwork on the cases. We got nothing."

"Why didn't you mention this yesterday?" Morse asked, curiously, dropping the files back onto his desk.

"I wanted to be sure," Lewis told him, "So I called up the files from storage. The similarities between the victims are there – young, blonde, pretty girls – same restraints, same cause of death, similar body dump locations – all near to the canal network."

Lewis got up and pointed to an enlarged map he had printed to the wall – three red pins pressed into it indicated where the bodies had been found. Morse leaned his elbows on his desk, thoughtfully. He was already drawing several conclusions, but he was interested to hear what the sergeant had to say.

"Where did the investigations lead?" he wanted to know.

"We interviewed everyone," Lewis recalled, glancing up at the map, "all the family, friends, associates, Christina's college mates, Lisa's agent, the people who found the bodies, boyfriends, even passing boaters – we got nowhere. All we could tell was that the girls had both gone missing after a night out in the town. Friends they were with saw them both chatting to a young man, and then the two of them would disappear. The description was vague – young, handsome, blonde-haired, leather or denim jacket. It wasn't much to go on, and forensics wasn't as advanced then as it is now."

"You built a profile of the killer?"

"Of a sort," Lewis shrugged, "our theory was that he might not be a city resident – that he passes through on an annual basis, maybe on a holiday. Our thought was a boating trip, given the proximity of the bodies to the canal and the inconvenient dump sites – virtually inaccessible, save as by boat."

"Good thinking," Morse nodded, approvingly, "what else did you conclude?"

"That he must have been young, strong, physically fit, and mentally deranged," Lewis said, bluntly, a distasteful look on his face, "I saw what he did to those girls…"

Lewis shook his head, not taking the thought further. Morse could appreciate the sentiment, but he needed more information.

"There were no suspects at all?" he asked.

"Several, all with tight alibis," Lewis sighed, "at first we suspected Christina's boyfriend, but he was with his family in Scotland at the time. There was a student who vaguely knew both of the girls, but he was in a wheelchair following a car accident – no way he could have done it. We figured the killer long gone by the time we found the bodies. We always thought… we always suspected that there were more… and that he would kill again."

"So you're looking at national missing persons cases?"

"And I'm looking for similar cases across the country," Lewis nodded, "chances are, it's a cold case, but… you never know, do you?"

"No," Morse agreed, "No, I suppose it can't hurt. Thank you, Lewis… I'll read these files. Let me know what else you find."

~*~

It was a long day of trawling through files for both of them. Lewis went through each missing person or homicide report on his desk with a fine tooth comb, as Morse studied the old case files with deep interest. DCI Bell had been thorough, by-the-book, and careful – and had got nowhere. Morse closed the second of the files after reading it for the fourth time, and, resting his elbows on the arm of his chair, pressed his fingertips together in front of his face, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

"The personal effects found with the victims," Morse commented, suddenly, making Lewis jump, "they didn't belong to the victims."

"We couldn't establish that for sure," Lewis replied, scratching his jaw as he tried to remember, "Christina was wearing a gold necklace that apparently wasn't hers – none of her friends or family recognised it. Lisa had on a silver crucifix that definitely wasn't hers – her friends confirmed she'd never worn one before."

"But it says here Lisa had been wearing a sterling silver charm bracelet at the time of her death," Morse noted, "her mother made a point of asking for it back if it as ever found."

"Like the one found with our unknown victim?" Lewis asked, surprised.

"Exactly like it," Morse confirmed, "the description of the charms matches the photographs taken by Doctor Russell."

"What was our victim doing with Lisa's charm bracelet?" Lewis frowned.

"I think our killer either gave it to her, or planted it on her before he dumped the body," Morse responded, opening his eyes to look at Lewis, "he takes a piece of jewellery from one victim, keeps it, and gives it to the next. He links all of the victims together…"

"So the necklace Christine was wearing could have come from an earlier victim… and Lisa's necklace…?"

"…Could well have come from Christine," Morse confirmed, "see if you can find out. Our victim then has Lisa's bracelet… if we can identify her, we might know what was taken from her. It might not help us find the killer, but it's a link we didn't have before…"

"I'll get right on it," Lewis promised, picking up his jacket, "I think Christine's parents live out in Jericho, sir…?"

"You go, Lewis – they might remember you. I'm going to stay here and do some thinking… something our DCI Bell ought to have tried."

Lewis flinched slightly, but knew the barb wasn't aimed at him – the animosity between Morse and Bell had always been the same until Bell's retirement. Without a further word, he ducked out of the office, and was gone.

~*~

It was nearly three hours before a very tired Lewis returned to the station. He went into the office, to find Morse staring at the crossword puzzle in the paper.

"Twenty-three minutes," Morse growled, without looking up, "my brain isn't working fast enough, Lewis – I need a beer."

"You and me both," Lewis sighed, sitting down heavily in his chair, "Christina's father died last year and her mother's a poor old dear – couldn't stop crying. She confirmed the crucifix found with Lisa belonged to her daughter. I've arranged to have it returned to her, and left her with a neighbour. She doesn't know any more that can help us, sir. I went around to Lisa's mum – she's in a nursing home, with advanced Alzheimer's. She couldn't tell me anything – I don't think she even remembered having a daughter, let alone the charm bracelet, but it does match the description on the file. "

"Well, at least I was right about the jewellery," Morse said, dropping his paper on the desk, "you do look like you could use a drink – come on, you can buy me one while you're at the bar."

"Oh, thank you very much, sir," Lewis said, dragging himself to his feet and following Morse out of the office, "your generosity knows no bounds, sir."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Lewis," Morse shot back, dryly, "come on, will you?"

Lewis followed him out, as Morse got into his car. They drove for a while, and Lewis was surprised to see that Morse had driven past at least two of his favourite pubs. His heart sank slightly as he recognised the pub that they eventually came to.

"This is where we found Christina's body," he said, as they pulled into the car park, "you know it's changed hands since then?"

"I know that," Morse said, irritably, "I just wanted to see the place. You go and get the drinks – I'll be in the garden."

Obediently, Lewis went inside. He emerged a few minutes later, carrying a pint of bitter for Morse and one for himself. He handed Morse his drink, sat down at the picnic bench, and glanced around quickly.

"Those are the bins where the body was found," he pointed to some large, industrial bins discreetly hidden behind a fence at the back of the pub, "the fence wasn't there before, though."

"So you would have had uninterrupted access to the bins from the canal towpath," Morse noted, glancing across at the canal, pausing to take a long draught of his bitter, "plenty of mooring posts – you could easily park up a canal boat and nip across to the bins."

"I bet a lot of boaters dump their rubbish here – that's probably why they put the fence up," Lewis agreed.

"But a body is heavy, bulky – and the bags could tear too easily," Morse responded, "so he'd probably have done it at night."

Lewis simply nodded. In the autumn sun, the water glittered under the golden boughs of the trees. There were a couple of boats moored up on the towpath and some children were playing in the grassy beer garden while their parents chatted over a bottle of wine. It seemed idyllic, but Lewis felt cold inside. Morse was silent for a long time, savouring his beer.

"Where were Lisa and our victim found in relation to here?" he asked, eventually, looking at the canal.

"Lisa was found in a lock about half a mile away that way," Lewis gestured, "and our victim's drainage ditch is about two miles that way."

"Good," Morse drained his pint, and set the glass down firmly on the table, "pull in some men and get the fingertip search of the area extended from a mile that way to three miles that way – I want all the ditches and drains searched, and if the dredger has been this way, search the muck from the canal basin. If it hasn't been here, get onto British Waterways and get them to get it down here and get on with it. Send in divers if they won't help."

"Sir – that's a four mile search zone… for a cold case, do you really think the Chief Super will allow it?"

"I'll deal with him," Morse growled as he got to his feet, "drink up, Lewis – we've got work to do."

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

Lewis was surprised to find that the Chief Superintendent had no reservations about allowing them twenty uniformed officers to perform a fingertip search of the canal banks for four miles. It seemed the CS remembered the two dead girls from previous years, and the case still haunted him – as it did Lewis, and as it had DCI Bell. The dredger from British Waterways was brought up the canal as well, and began scraping the reeking mud from the bottom of the canal and ditching it into workboats along side, which were then taken away to be sifted through by forensics students, lab techs, and force volunteers. However, Lewis was not surprised that Morse had chosen to set up his base of operations in the beer garden at the pub. The search began in the early morning of the following day, as soon as it was light, and the searchers worked hard, moving slowly and thoroughly through dank ditches and muddy hollows. Lewis spent the day running backwards and forwards between Morse and those carrying out the searches, doing his best to supervise the operation, as the officers crept their way painstakingly up the canal. None of them had any real idea what they were looking for, but Lewis was convinced that there was another body out there, the oldest one, possibly the first. He knew Morse suspected it was in this area, and he knew if it was there they had to find it. Still, it was a long shot after so much time.

Sometime late in the afternoon, Lewis managed to take a break, sitting down opposite Morse in the garden. His suit was rumpled and mud-stained from climbing into ditches after several black bin bag 'false alarms' – including one that contained the skeletal remains of a dead dog. He'd arranged to have the dog sent to Dr Russell in any event, just in case. Morse was sitting at the table, pint glass in hand, reading through a file.

"The forensic reports on our skeleton," he said, flipping it across to Lewis, who had treated himself to half a pint of larger, "Dr Russell says the lab couldn't find anything chemical, but the dental records are a match to one of the missing girls you identified. Her name was Tania O'Connor, a barmaid at the New Wayside Inn, a canal side pub on the outskirts of Oxford. Her parents owned the place, until they died in a car crash eight months ago."

Lewis was silent for a moment, absorbing that information.

"At least we don't have to tell them we found her body," he said, at last, quietly, "sir, we're going to lose the light soon and we're barely half-way through the search. We'll need to come back tomorrow, but we haven't found anything much yet – except a dead dog."

"A dead dog?"

"Well, it was tied up in a couple of bin bags – I've sent it to Dr Russell."

"She's going to love you for that."

~*~

"Sergeant Lewis seems to think I'm a vet as well as a pathologist, Morse," the doctor said, dryly, in the cold lab, as they gathered there that evening.

The light had finally dwindled, and Morse had reluctantly called off the search for the day. Now, it was evening, and they found themselves back at the lab. In front of them, the skeletal dog was laid out on the table, reassembled as much as possible.

"Is there anything you can tell us, or are we just looking for a boater who improperly disposed of the deceased family pet?" Morse asked, sourly.

"Actually, Lewis was right to send this to me," Russell replied, patting the dog's skull as if it were still alive, "it's a medium sized dog, probably a collie or a retriever – I've sent photos to a vet I know for proper species identification, but I doubt it's relevant. What is relevant is that this poor pooch had his paws tied with cable ties, and was stabbed several times in the chest. I also found this…"

Russell handed Lewis a plastic evidence bag, and he held it up, puzzled. It was a pet's collar, but…

"Isn't that a bit small for a dog this size?" he asked, passing it to Morse.

"Exactly," Russell nodded, "that's a cat's collar. So, if your man killed this dog…"

"Classic profiling," Morse realised, "many serial killers, so I've heard, often show sadistic tendencies in childhood, tormenting small animals, eventually moving to larger domestic pets, and then when there's no thrill in that anymore, people."

"So our guy might have killed a cat, taken the collar as a memento, then killed a dog… maybe took it's collar as a trophy, and has no need of the cat collar anymore – he's moved beyond that now – so throws it in the bag when disposing of the dog?" Lewis suggested, a slight trace of revulsion in his voice.

"That sounds about right," Russell agreed, "he might even have been fairly young when he did this – young teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen. I reckon this skeleton's about six or seven years old – your oldest victim so far was killed maybe four years ago? I'd pitch your killer's age at between twenty and twenty-five."

"That's very young, doctor."

"Most serial killers are quite young, Morse," Russell replied, "he's probably seasonal, and the killings are a holiday event – unless you've found similar occurrences elsewhere? No? Thought not. No. Your guy came – or comes – to the Oxford canal roughly once a year, probably in the autumn time, kills someone, takes a trophy, and returns the next year to better the score."

"The most recent victim was killed last year, or so we think," Morse said, quietly, "does that mean he's been back this year – or that he's coming back soon, to kill again?"

"The profile would fit," Russell nodded, grimly, "Morse – either there's a body out there, or there's a killer hunting for his next victim."

"Neither are pleasant thoughts, doctor," Morse responded, flatly, "thank you – that was helpful."

"My pleasure," answered Russell, picking up the dog's skull, "he's kind of cute – I might keep him. What shall I call him?"

"Ex," Lewis suggested, "short for 'Rex'."

Morse groaned as Russell laughed.

"Let's go, Lewis."

~*~

Lewis was glad to finally get home. Val and the kids had already gone to bed, so he had fixed himself a sandwich, enjoyed a cold beer from the 'fridge, and had crawled into bed at an hour so late at night it was probably early morning. He was therefore in a deep sleep when the bedside phone rang with a shrill wail, startling him out of his slumber – that, and his wife's sharp elbow in his ribs telling him that he was going to answer that, and soon. He fumbled and grabbed the handset in the darkness, savouring the moment's silence as the awful noise stopped.

"Lewis," he groaned into it.

"Sorry to wake you, sir – it's PC Clifton. We've had an anonymous tip off of another body dumped in a black bin bag… by the canal. The Chief Inspector wants you to meet him there."

Clifton described the location as best he could as Lewis listened.

"I'll be right there," he promised, keeping his voice low.

He dropped the handset back into the cradle, and let out a low sigh. Getting out of bed, he heard Val murmur a protest.

"Sorry, love," he said, as he began to pull on a clean suit, "work. It's really important. I've got to go."

He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, as she snuggled back down to sleep. Giving the bed one last longing look, Lewis left as quietly as he could, slipped out of the front door, got into the car, and drove off into the night. There was a persistent drizzle in the air, and the night was chilly – Lewis was regretting only bringing a lightweight coat. Finally, he found a parked up patrol car on the side of the road, with a very damp-looking PC standing behind it. Lewis parked up – he could not see Morse's Jaguar, but this was not surprising – Lewis was used to being first on the scene.

"What have we got?" he called out, wrapping his flimsy jacket around himself in an effort to keep warm and dry.

"Someone called in a body dump near the towpath in this area," she said, holding out a torch, "the canal is on the other side of this field, sir. Clifton's over there at the moment searching – there's hardly anyone else available after the big search today, and our back-up seems to have gotten lost."

"Understood," Lewis nodded, accepting the torch, "have you found a body?"

"Not yet, so far as I know, sir," she replied, "it's very dark and muddy."

"I know; I was walking around it all day," Lewis sighed, "any idea where we are and where I should be going?"

"We're about a mile from the northern start line of the search area," she told him, "head across the field and you'll be able to climb over the fence on the other side onto the towpath. The call said we'd find a body in the area, and that was all."

She sounded even less happy to be there than Lewis was. Lewis nodded and murmured his thanks. Climbing over the fence, he switched on the torch, and began the walk across the field, wondering why he hadn't brought Wellingtons with him this time. Eventually, he reached the other side, climbed over the fence, and glanced around. It was pitch black around him, and the still water of the canal shone like oil as his torch beam passed over it. He could not see the cars on the road anymore, hidden as they were by the hedges that grew around the fences. There was also no sign of PC Clifton. Lewis scanned the torch beam around, knowing that the young officer might be searching surrounding fields or ditches.

"Clifton!" he called out, "Clifton! Where are you, man?"

There was no reply. Lewis sighed. What was he doing here, wandering along a canal bank in the cold, wet darkness at this hour of the morning? He shone the torch around, wondering which direction to go in. Randomly, he decided to head north, away from their previous search area. Casting the light ahead of him, he kept up a slow, measured pace, flicking the torch this way and that, checking the towpath, canal, reed banks, fields and ditches, knowing it would be nearly impossible to spot a black bin bag in the pitch darkness.

Suddenly, his light caught a flash of colour in front of him. Turning the beam, he saw a long canal barge moored to the bank in front of him, the windows in darkness. Lewis stopped, and stared at it for a long moment. There was something about the boat that seemed odd. Lewis kept the light trained on the boat, looking for any signs of life.

Lewis was staring so hard at the boat, he did not hear the approaching footsteps behind him, until the sudden crunch of gravel beside him made him jump. He spun around, bringing the torch around, but the shadow beside him moved faster. The torch was slapped from his hand and it went flying into the hedgerow somewhere – Lewis heard it land, just as the light flickered out. In the darkness, he was lost and disoriented. The blow came out of nowhere – Lewis felt a sharp, stunning pain in his temple, lost his balance, and toppled into the canal.

He cried out wordlessly as he fell, and hit the water. It was freezing cold, and Lewis choked on in, clawing for the surface. Kicking hard, he managed to break the surface, gasped in a lungful of air, and sank under again. The water was being churned up – the boat, the engine of the boat, it must be – Lewis felt himself being pulled under again. Willing himself to calm down and stay conscious, Lewis kicked again, and reaching out, managed to grab the side of the towpath. Hanging on to it grimly, Lewis coughed up and spat out the filthy canal water, shivering, gasping, and clung to the bank, head spinning.

Unable to summon the strength to pull himself out of the water, Lewis heard running footsteps along the bank, and there were two torch lights bobbing along the towpath. His vision blurred, and he felt his grip relax from the edge of the path, as unconsciousness beckoned. Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed his wrist, and there were voices above him.

"Sir? Are you okay, sir?"

"Does he bloody look alright? Get him out of there!"

Barely semi-conscious, Lewis felt himself being pulled from the freezing water. He managed to get a foot on the canal bank, but collapsed on the towpath. Somebody pulled on his shoulder, turning him half onto his back. Squinting, he was just about able to make out two blurred figures in the torchlight, as he coughed and rolled over, spitting out water.

"Don't tell me you were daft enough to fall in, Lewis," said a voice that was unmistakeably Morse.

"Sir, look – his head – someone must have hit him…"

"Bloody hell – get an ambulance out here. I want uniforms everywhere, now!"

Lewis raised his hand, coughed, and tried to speak. He felt sick, whether from the head wound or the water he'd swallowed he couldn't tell.

"The boat," he choked out.

"What? Speak up, man!"

Lewis tried to speak, but a fit of coughing robbed him of voice and breath. Two pairs of hands lifted him into a sitting position, but his strength was gone, and he gave in to the darkness.

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

Morse felt Lewis shudder and go limp, and swore. He caught the sergeant before he could hit his head on the ground, and glanced up at PC Clifton, who was summoning backup on his radio.

"Did you hear what he said?"

"No sir, sorry," Clifton shook his head, "is he alright, sir?"

"I hope so," Morse growled, under his breath, "keep that light to hand and keep your eyes open – there must be someone around here."

Morse shifted slightly, but did not get up from his kneeling position beside Lewis, ignoring the mud and water that was soaking into his trousers. There was a deep gash just above the sergeant's eye, and blood mingled with the drizzling rain water. Morse took a handkerchief from his pocket, folded it up, and pressed it against the cut. Lewis groaned, and flinched.

"That's it, Lewis, come on," Morse encouraged him.

Lewis coughed, and his eyes flickered open, eventually focussing on Morse. He groaned, winced, and raised his hand to his head. Morse reached down, and helped him to sit up.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Morse asked.

"There was a boat," Lewis replied, his voice shaky, "moored up here… I was looking at it when someone crept up and… hit me over the head. Knocked me in the drink. He…he must have taken the boat."

Lewis gestured towards the canal, hissed in pain, using the handkerchief to clean away some of the blood and rainwater on his face. Morse could see him shivering in the torchlight.

"Well, I hope you didn't drink too much of it," Morse remarked, with a grimace, "can you walk?"

"Aye – I think so."

Morse stood up, and then helped the sergeant to his feet, steadying him as he swayed slightly. Morse called to Clifton, telling him to come back to the car, not wanting to risk carrying out any further explorations in the dark. Between them, Clifton and Morse helped Lewis back to the fence leading to the road. As they were crossing the field, two patrol cars came screaming up the road with sirens blaring, closely followed by an ambulance and another patrol car. Uniformed officers and two paramedics bailed out of their respective vehicles, and Morse dispatched all but two of the officers across the field to search the canal towpath and to get after the boat. Lewis was handed over to the paramedics, who quickly wrapped him in a red blanket and began to treat the head wound.

Morse went and stood by the fence, leaning on it heavily as he gazed out over the black fields. The sky was taking on the grey hue that indicated it would soon be dawn. Morse glared at the sky, the fields, and the canal beyond. In a few hours, he could have this place swarming with police officers… and in a few hours, Lewis's mystery assailant could be miles away. Morse sighed – there was no way of knowing if the shadowy figure who'd attacked the sergeant was their killer, or even if it was related to their case at all. Certainly not without finding a body, and that was the last thing anyone wanted…

Lost in his reverie, Morse was only half-aware that the ambulance had pulled away behind him, leaving the scene. He sighed. Lewis's wife was probably going to have a few choice words to say – dragging him out of bed at an unsavoury hour of the morning and sending him home with concussion…

"My wife's going to kill me."

Morse startled slightly, and whipped around. Lewis stood there, ashen-faced in the grey dawn light, his clothes wet and filthy with mud, hair wet and matted, blood seeping through a white gauze pad taped above his left eye. However, there was a trace of a smile in the otherwise pained expression.

"Shouldn't you be in hospital?" Morse asked, glancing with concern at the creeping red stain on the white dressing.

"I signed the waiver – promised not to sue them if I collapse and die later today, et cetera, et cetera," Lewis smiled, "still, at least it would give you the body our mystery caller promised us."

"I'm just hoping yours wasn't the body we were supposed to find," Morse growled, "the bastard could quite easily have killed you."

"Nearly did," Lewis replied, with a slight tremor in his voice.

He coughed, glanced away and then looked up again.

"Did you find the boat?" he asked.

"Not yet," Morse shook his head, slowly, "Look, there's no point in us standing about here freezing. I want you to go home, get changed, and get some sleep if you can. I'll meet you back at the station later – no, don't worry about what time, just whenever you're up to it. Go on. I'll be at home if you… well, if you want anything."

"Aye sir," Lewis nodded, gratefully, "thank you, sir."

"Hang on! Are you safe to be driving?"

"No less than usual, sir."

Morse snorted with amusement, and turned to his own car. Wagner, a beer and his dressing gown were what he needed to think right now.

~*~

It was nearly midday by the time Morse made it back to his office, and he was not surprised to see that Lewis was already there, scribbling intently on a notepad.

"I thought you were going to take the morning off," he grunted, as he dropped into his chair, mug of tea in hand.

"I couldn't sleep," Lewis replied, touching his fingers to the dressing on his forehead and flinching slightly.

Morse winced in sympathy, but was relieved to see that Lewis had at least applied a clean dressing. The sergeant's face was still pale, and his left eye was slightly swollen with an impressive bruise.

"What are you doing?" Morse asked, leaning back in his chair.

"Just jotting down notes on what happened last night, sir – for the file," Lewis explained, "we've extended the search area from yesterday to cover the area indicated by our mystery caller. Nothing's turned up yet – no body, no boat, and not the bloke who clocked me one – but we'll keep looking."

"Why would he call in?" Morse wondered, aloud, "Why phone us – from a payphone – to tell us he'd dumped a body, before he'd even left the area?"

"Maybe he's feeling cocky – might have seen us searching the area, or maybe read about the bodies in the papers," Lewis suggested, "could even have been a prank call and we got there quicker than the prankster thought."

"Could be," Morse muttered, noncommittally.

At that point, the phone on Lewis's desk rang loudly, and he snatched it up, pressing one hand to his aching head, ignoring the look Morse gave him.

"Lewis… aye, he's here… aye… oh… okay… thanks."

He dropped the 'phone back on the rest, and glanced up at Morse.

"They've found the body, haven't they," Morse stated.

"Aye sir," Lewis started to nod, but thought better of it.

He went to stand up, but a wave of dizziness crashed over him, forcing him to sit down again. He took a few deep breaths, waiting for the nausea to subside, glancing up at Morse, who was already at the door.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Fine, sir," Lewis replied, shakily.

Morse gave him an uncertain, appraising look; "I think I'd better drive."

~*~

They arrived at the scene, easily located by the presence of several squad cars, a dog handler's van, Dr Russell's car and a hearse. Morse pulled up and parked in the verge, slowly getting out of the car, and curling his lip slightly. He was getting slightly fed up with incurring dry cleaning bills from ploughing through fields. They were greeted by a uniformed officer, who led them through a gate, across two fields, over a sty, and onto the towpath. Ten minutes later, they came across a white forensic tent across the path. Morse took a deep, steadying breath, and went inside.

"Afternoon, Morse," Russell greeted him, from where she crouched on the floor, "good grief, Lewis – what on earth happened to you?"

"An early morning encounter on the towpath," he replied, with a half-smile.

"Sounds lovely," Russell said, dryly, "Morse, we've got another one – and she's recent. Not been in the water for very long, probably about ten hours. I'd say she's been dead for about two days."

Russell moved to one side, allowing Morse a quick glance of the woman's naked body. He glanced away, quickly, wiping a hand across his mouth.

"What can you tell me?" he asked.

"Her hands and ankles are bound with cable ties," Russell reported, quickly, "she's been strangled and stabbed at least thirteen times. She was found in six layers of bin bags, tied with a cable tie – here's the funny part, though – the bag was attached to a tow rope, which was tied to a tree back here, and then thrown in the canal. Your officers pretty much fell over it – compared to the others, this was easy to find."

"Hmm," Morse growled, "any item of jewellery found on her?"

Russell held up a forensic bag, which Morse took. It contained a silver, flower-shaped brooch, set with small crystals. He silently handed it back.

"That probably belonged to Tania O'Connor, our skeleton," Morse grunted, "doctor, I'd appreciate your report as soon as possible – especially if there's anything that we can use to identify her. Lewis – get back to those missing persons files and look for recent ones, see if there's anything matching this victim."

"Aye, sir," Lewis responded, trying to keep to weariness out of his voice.

Morse stepped outside and was greeted by DC Denton.

"Any sign of the blue boat Lewis saw last night?" he asked.

"We've seen a couple matching the description, sir, but none of the boaters matched the description of our suspect – mainly holiday hires and weekend cruisers. We're following up a report of an abandoned boat further up the canal, apparently set loose without moorings. Might have been the one, sir."

"Let me know when anything turns up," Morse told him, and then began the long walk back to the car, "Lewis… why would a killer who has gone uncaught – and virtually unnoticed – for nearly four years, suddenly start calling us up to tell us where to find the body of his latest victim?"

"I've been doing some research into serial killers, sir," Lewis replied, glancing across the canal as he walked along with his hands in his pockets, "seems that a classic profile is to start out small, with the animals, as we've seen… then progress to people, carefully at first, then more brazenly – many killers have taunted the police before their capture. Peter Sutcliffe, the so-called Yorkshire Ripper, was a good example."

"You've been reading up, Lewis," Morse said, in an approving tone, "what else does your reading tell you?"

"That he either won't give up until he's caught, and that he either wants to be caught, hence the taunts, or he's telling us he's too clever to get caught and we won't find the bodies unless he tells us where they are. He's probably got previous form, possibly violent assault or something like that, and there's a good chance he's from a broken home or there was some tragic event in his childhood that left some kind of emotional scarring."

"We're still missing a victim," Morse reminded Lewis, "probably the very first woman he killed. Why tell us where the most recent one is, and not the first?"

"Maybe he wanted to let us know he's back, or been and gone for the year? Or there's some incriminating evidence with the first victim that would lead back to him?" Lewis sighed, and rubbed a hand across his eyes, "I really don't know, sir."

Morse gave him a sideways look, and let out a frustrated sigh; "That's the problem, Lewis… I don't know either."

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

By the evening time, Lewis had a pounding headache, and Morse was in a foul mood. The older man sat at his desk glaring at the wall, while Lewis tried to read some of the files that were piled on his desk. The words swam in front of his eyes, so he closed them for a moment, resting his elbows on the desk as he scrubbed his hands through his hair, and then reached for the bottle of painkillers on his desk. He could sense Morse watching him, but he ignored the stare.

Morse sighed. He knew neither of them were accomplishing anything, but he wondered which was worse – sitting in the office and staring at a wall, or sitting at home staring at a wall. He decided the latter was preferable, if only because he could at least have a beer and listen to some decent music. He stood up and pulled on his jacket, turned to tell Lewis to knock it off for the night, and paused. The sergeant had fallen asleep over his desk, head resting on his forearm. Morse contemplated leaving him there, but then thought better of it.

"Lewis," he said, and then a little louder; "Lewis!"

The younger man came awake with a start and gasp, followed by an audible groan of pain as he cradled his head in his hands. Morse sighed.

"Come on," he said, opening the door, "I'll give you a lift home."

Lewis blinked at him blearily, and then nodded slowly. He stood up, and picked up his jacket, following Morse out of the door. It was just at that moment that the 'phone rang on Morse's desk. Lewis hesitated, caught Morse's gaze, sighed, and went back to answer it.

"Inspector Morse's office, Lewis speaking," he said, unable to keep the fatigue from his voice, "oh, hello doctor… aye… thank you."

He put the phone down, and glanced across at Morse.

"Dr Russell's finished the autopsy," he reported, "she says she wants to see us."

"Can't it wait until morning?" Morse snapped, irritably.

"It sounded important, sir," Lewis replied, apologetically.

Morse bit back a retort, and sighed. Lewis looked wrung out, and Morse couldn't blame him.

"Come on then," he muttered, "let's go and see what the fuss is about."

~*~

"So far we still haven't identified her," Russell was saying, as she walked around the occupied autopsy table, "but, we did find a few interesting things. She has been raped, but her assailant used a condom, and the act was probably post-mortem."

"Are you trying to give me insomnia?" Morse complained.

"There's more," Russell promised him, "This victim put up a fight. I found scrapings of skin under her fingernails and a few hairs, but its all been degraded by the water. A wound on the back of her head suggests that she was knocked out – presumably to keep her quiet."

"Have you got anything from the skin cells?" Morse asked, quietly, trying to ignore the late hour indicated on the clock on the wall.

"Not unless you can get me something to match it to," Russell replied, "but your killer – her attacker – it definitely white with blonde hair. He's probably got some scratches, somewhere on his body, from her fingernails."

"I assume that's not all?" Morse asked, glancing across at Lewis, who was leaning heavily against one of the other autopsy tables, looking as if he'd happily lie down on it and go to sleep.

"I wanted you to see this," Russell said, grimly, "it didn't show up before because the body was so covered in mud and blood. When I washed her down, I found this…"

Russell grasped the dead woman's shoulder, pulling the corpse over onto its' side. Morse glanced at the woman's back, and then glanced away quickly, swallowing hard, hearing Lewis's sharp intake of breath beside him.

"Maybe you'd find a photograph easier to deal with," Russell commented, laying the body back down and covering it with a sheet, "here."

She picked up a glossy print from a nearby table and handed it over. Morse looked down at it, fighting to keep down the nausea he always felt at the sight of blood and bodies. The woman's naked back had taken on a corpse-grey, the shallow cuts on her back standing out like black ink, a sickening number carved into her flesh.

"Five," Morse said, aloud, "he carved the number five into her back."

"It fits with what we know," Lewis said, hollowly, "this confirms this poor lass was the fifth victim – Christina second, then Lisa, then Tania, and our unknown first victim."

The three of them stood in silence for a long time. Without a word, Morse turned and left the lab, taking the photograph with him. Lewis offered Russell a tired half-smile, and then followed the DCI out of the room.

~*~

"We've got to find this bastard, Lewis," Morse growled, as they walked slowly back to the car in the darkness, "he's taunting us, and I want him found."

"Aye sir," Lewis murmured, tiredly.

Morse spared the sergeant a sideways glance, and idly wondered how long the sergeant could last before he keeled over.

"Come on – I'd better take you home to your wife."

Lewis simply nodded tiredly, and climbed into the passenger seat of the Jaguar. Morse gunned the engine, and pulled away, deep in thought and anger. It was rare for a killer so get so far under his skin, but Morse hated the thought that there was a man somewhere, possibly still in Oxford, who had killed five women over five years, and had so far evaded all efforts at detection. The only evidence they had was that which the killer had virtually handed to them on a plate. Morse said as much out loud, inviting Lewis to comment. When no response was forthcoming, Morse glanced across, and was not surprised to see that the younger man was fast asleep.

Shaking his head slightly, Morse drove on slowly. When he reached Lewis's house, he gave the sergeant a gentle nudge to wake him.

"Go on," he said, "go and get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

"Aye," Lewis nodded, hiding a yawn, "Good night, sir."

Morse watched him go into the house, which was already in darkness. Turning the car out into the road, he then headed off for the sanctuary of his own home.

~*~

It was fair to say neither of the detectives slept a wink that night. Morse spent most of the night lying on his sofa, listening to Wagner at a low enough volume not to disturb the neighbours, a glass of malt whiskey cradled in his hand and the bottle within easy reach. Lewis lay in bed with a pounding headache, half-asleep, lost in a feverish world of nightmares. When morning came it brought little relief to either of them – Lewis slipped out of the house early before his children were awake, and Morse found himself feeling somewhat hung-over, a feeling amplified by lack of sleep.

Lewis arrived at the office early, and absorbed himself in his work. Morse arrived around midday, as the sergeant was finishing off a lengthy telephone call. Morse dropped into his chair, leaning back, only half listening as the sergeant finished the call and hung up.

"Morning, sir," Lewis greeted him, conveniently ignoring the fact it was past midday, "sleep well?"

Morse grunted wordlessly, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

"What was that all about?" he asked, waving his hand at the telephone.

"I've been calling some of the canal boat hire companies," Lewis replied, his voice hoarse, "I've circulated a description of our suspect – one or two of them remember a bloke on his own asking to hire a boat. That chap I was just talking to owns the boat we recovered yesterday afternoon – it seems he remembers the bloke who hired it. I was going to go down and have a word in person…?"

Morse nodded; "Good… You look terrible, Lewis. Are you up to driving?"

"Just a bit of a cold, sir," Lewis responded, clearing his throat, "my car's still in the car park."

"Hmm. I think I'll drive," Morse said, giving the sergeant an appraising look, "come on. We'll go and talk to this chap and then we'll find a pub. You can get yourself a brandy for your cold. I might even have one to keep you company…"

~*~

"He should have brought the boat back today," the boatyard owner, John Wingate, was clearly in a bad mood, "when can I have her back? She's been booked out for a week, starting tomorrow, and she'll probably need a bloody good cleaning…"

"I'm sorry," Morse replied, sounding anything but, "that boat is a crime scene, and we've impounded it for further investigation."

Wingate growled something unsavoury under his breath, and turned his back on them both as he went back to painting the hull of a boat that was sitting on blocks in the yard. Nearby, on the canal, several boats were moored up, bright and colourful in the grey autumnal afternoon.

"What can you tell us about the man who hired the boat?" asked Morse, as Lewis stood to one said, pen and notepad poised to take notes.

"Winter Rose," Wingate said, absently, as he painted.

"I'm sorry?"

"Her name – the boat – she's called the Winter Rose," Wingate responded, "the bloke who hired her – average guy, really. Seem to recall he's been here a few times, over the years – tall chap, young, blonde, student type, I suppose."

"Do you keep records of the hire for the Winter Rose?"

Wingate faltered slightly as he painted, but resumed painting quickly.

"I, uh, misplaced the records," he said, not looking at them, "sorry."

"And our man paid in cash, did he?" Morse commented, knowingly, "Mr Wingate – unless you would like me to send one of my colleagues from the fraud squad to come and see you about the amount of income tax your probably haven't been paying, I suggest you start co-operating with me. What can you tell me about this man?"

Wingate put down the paintbrush, and wiped his hands down the front of his overalls.

"Not much," he said, scowling at Morse, "like I said, tall, probably five-eleven, six foot maybe. Young, maybe twenty five. Blonde. Well dressed, like. Always paid in advance, always brought the boats back on time, and they were always spotlessly clean."

"How long did he hire the boats for?"

"Only about four or five days," Wingate shrugged.

"Does he have a name, this man?"

Wingate had the grace to look embarrassed as he replied; "He told me to call him 'John Smith'."

Morse glared at him, and Wingate picked up his paintbrush again; "there's nothing else I can tell you. He always rang in advance, booked the boat, paid on arrival, and then disappeared off up the canal for a couple of days."

"You do realise this man is a murder suspect, don't you?" Morse demanded, "And you, who've seen his face and could have had his name and address on record, might have just let him get away with it!"

Wingate snorted, and ignored them both. Morse paused for a long moment, sighed, and shook his head.

"If you remember anything that might be of use, call us," Morse ordered, "especially if this 'John Smith' turns up again."

Wingate grunted in response, as Morse turned to leave. Lewis followed, staying diplomatically silent, sensing the Chief Inspector's bad mood. He smothered a cough, and wiped a shaky hand across his face, carefully avoiding the dressing still taped above his left eye. The cut stung painfully, and he felt utterly exhausted. Wordlessly, they got into Morse's car, and Lewis savoured the simple pleasure of not having to stand up, as he leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes. His eyes snapped open again with a start when Morse smacked the steering wheel in frustration.

"We could have had him!" Morse snapped, "And that…that man! Our best lead so far, and it turns out he doesn't keep records of all his cash transactions to skip out on paying the income tax. I should have arrested him."

"It's unlikely our bloke will go back there," Lewis sighed, then sneezed, and shivered, "he knows we've recovered the boat and would trace it back there."

Morse nodded, deep in thought; "And it seems he prizes discretion. He's not stupid, Lewis, and that worries me. He plans everything down to the last detail, it seems… Wingate," he said, spitting out the name in distaste, "said that the boats hired were always returned spotlessly clean. These were very violent murders, you see…"

"There would have been a lot of blood about," Lewis agreed, "maybe he put down plastic sheeting, or something…"

"I should think so," Morse replied, "come on, Lewis – I think we both need a drink."

Lewis tried to reply, but had to turn away, hiding a fit of coughing behind his hand. Morse gave the sergeant a sideways look, and started the engine.

"And you can keep that cold to yourself!"

~*~

The pub was warm and cosy inside, and virtually deserted. It was coming up for 4pm, and most people would have still been at work. Morse found a table in a corner, taking off his coat and jacket and draping them over the back of his chair. Lewis went to the bar and ordered the drinks, bringing them over; a pint of bitter for Morse, and an orange juice for himself. He had a strong feeling that he might have to drive the Jaguar home, given his boss's mood.

Morse picked the drink up without a word, and sank half of it in the first draught. He put the glass down heavily and glared at the wall. Lewis sipped at his juice, wincing slightly as he swallowed – his throat and chest were sore, and he tried not to cough, failing miserably. Morse gave him a sour look.

"Sorry, sir," Lewis said, apologetically, "must've caught a bug when I got knocked into the canal."

Morse growled something unintelligible, and drank the rest of his beer in three deep swallows. He got up, wordlessly, and went over to the bar. Lewis glanced across at the bar, but said nothing – Morse would occasionally buy himself a drink while he waited for Lewis to catch up and get a round in. He turned back to his drink, and put his hand in his pocket, and then groaned – he'd left his painkillers on the desk at work. Despite the warmth of the pub, he kept his jacket and coat on, and he pulled the jacket tighter around himself, taking another careful sip of orange juice, wishing he was at home in bed, not sitting in a pub with his boss in a bad temper.

Lewis was therefore somewhat surprised when a small glass of amber liquid was deposited in front of him, and Morse dropped back into the opposite seat, ensconcing himself in the armchair with a pint of bitter.

"It's brandy, Lewis," Morse said, to the sergeant's curious look, "drink it, it'll do you good. I need you awake and thinking."

Lewis obediently sipped at the brandy, cradling the glass in his hands as he savoured the warm, fiery taste.

"Thank you, sir," he said, gratefully, and then sneezed.

Morse gave a derisory snort, taking a mouthful of his own beer, and scowled down at the table.

"The chances are that our killer is long gone from Oxford by now," he growled, "it was you that said he was almost a text book case, Lewis, but this man, whoever he is… he's more than that. He's clever and controlled – you didn't find any other cases like this nationally, did you…?"

Lewis simply shook his head, content to let Morse do the talking.

"No…" Morse said, distantly, "he comes to Oxford roughly once every twelve months, in the autumn, finds a girl, kills her, rapes her and then attacks the corpse with a knife…" Morse broke off, swallowed hard on his revulsion, took a mouthful of beer, and continued; "he dumps the body, and then disappears. The chances are the scene takes place in a canal boat, thoroughly prepared, then thoroughly cleaned, returned to the hire company, and used by dozens of other people afterwards, eradicating any trace evidence remaining."

"How did he do it, sir?" Lewis croaked, and coughed to clear his throat.

"Do what?" Morse frowned.

"Control the girls, sir," Lewis explained, "see, he chats them up, takes them back to the boat, they walk in and the place is covered in plastic sheeting?"

"He might not take them inside the boat straight away," Morse responded, sipping his beer, consuming it more slowly, as thinking took over from drinking, "the boat would have to be moored nearby so they didn't have far to walk – maybe he suggests a romantic midnight cruise. They moor up in the remote countryside, then he takes her inside, where he strangles her…and so on… and then puts the body in the thick waste bags, cleans up, takes the boat back, dumping the body one night on the way."

Morse paused, glancing out of the window, gathering his thoughts.

"Only now he knows that we're after him," Morse said, a little distantly, "now he knows that we've found the bodies. He's even told us where to find one of them. He's shown us his crime scene – practically gave us the boat. He even tried to kill you, Lewis."

"He might yet succeed on that," Lewis groaned, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and coughed into it.

Morse managed an amused half-smile at the sergeant's misery.

"He's arrogant, Lewis," Morse said, "he thinks we're not going to catch him unless he lets us. He started out cautious, secretive, and then got braver, the more time he was undiscovered. He probably read with delight in the tabloids about your original investigation with Chief Inspector Bell. After that, he felt untouchable, got arrogant, brags to us he can't be caught, and it becomes a game."

"We'll get him, sir," Lewis said, quietly, finishing the brandy.

"Hmm," Morse was non-committal, "he's so controlled, Lewis. A serial killer who only kills once per year? That's very controlled. And he does it late autumn, when the canals are virtually deserted of tourists. He's smart, Lewis. Too smart."

"I doubt he's as smart as you are, sir," Lewis replied, hoarsely, leaning back in the arm chair.

Morse made no comment, and the two of them sat in silence for a long moment, as Morse finished his beer.

"Come on," Morse said, eventually, "let's get back to the office and see if there's anything back from Dr. Russell or forensics."


	6. Chapter 6

~*~

Dr Russell's report cast little light on the situation, save that she had reported large quantities of alcohol in the system of their latest victim, which was no great surprise. The skin cells under her fingernails had been too degraded by exposure to the canal water to be of any use, and there was little other trace evidence on the body. Livid marks on the body suggested that the victim had been curled up on her side for sometime after death – probably, as Dr Russell suggested, meaning that the body had been kept wrapped in the bin bag for several hours before the bag was tied to a tree by a rope and thrown in the canal.

Morse leaned back in his chair, frowning as he read the reports, skipping quickly past the pathology photographs. He knew, in the back of his mind, that he might read hundreds of such reports and still be no closer to catching the killer.

The forensics reports were similarly unhelpful – it seemed that every surface, nook and cranny of the canal boat had been cleaned with domestic bleach – they had found a few blonde hairs in the bed, and only the slightest trace of the victim's blood had marred a few carpet fibres. The boat was definitely their murder scene, and Morse had to wonder what had happened to the copious amounts of plastic sheeting the killer must have used. No doubt he had taken it with him – the forensics report suggested that the traces of bleach found on the outside hull of the boat might indicate that the killer had washed the sheets in the canal over the side of the boat, but this was only a theory.

A description of the killer and a photo-fit based on the boat owner's description had been passed to the newspapers, who had seized on the story both locally and nationally. A helpline had been set up for people to phone in with information, and Morse had seen a steady stream of reports and files being dumped on Lewis's desk, containing all of the calls in ranging from "a blonde man just walked past me in the street" to, "I'm the killer" confessions. So far, none of them had produced anything worth following up, and Morse was convinced their killer was no longer in Oxford in any case.

The afternoon wore on, and Morse half-listened to the droned reports of desk sergeants and constables who came and went, reporting on various searches and telephone reports. Nothing further turned up from the canal-side searches, or the underwater searches, and Morse's thoughts on the case were bleak. Eventually, early evening, he finally decided to call it a day. Besides, he was fed up of listening to Lewis coughing.

"Go home, Lewis," he said, breaking the hours of concentrated silence, "go home. The case is cold and our killer is long gone. Do yourself – and me – a favour and take tomorrow off, get over that blasted cold of yours."

Lewis opened his mouth as if to protest, and then apparently thought better of it.

"Aye sir," he said, instead, "what about you, sir?"

"I am going home for a good stiff drink," Morse replied, picking up his coat, "I may well work from home myself tomorrow."

"Okay. Well, good night, sir."

"Good night, Lewis."

Lewis watched the older man leave, noting the tired stoop in his shoulders as he went. He sighed, rubbing his face tiredly, and began to tidy away some of the clutter from his desk, before he picked up his own coat, and left the office. He nodded to a few of his night shift colleagues as he was on his way out, got into his car, and headed for home. He did not notice, a few yards behind him, the small red Ford that followed him out of the car park.

~*~

The next day, Lewis took full advantage of Morse's instructions to take the day off. After he'd seen his daughter and son off to school and Val had left the house to visit her aunt and do some shopping, he stretched out on the settee with a mug of tea to read the morning paper. Eventually, he dropped it to one side, and fell into a doze. He still felt somewhat feverish and washed out, and though the cut on his head and black eye were starting to heal, his head still ached, and it felt good to relax. His down time was interrupted, however, by a ring at the door bell. He groaned, and considered ignoring it, but it could be important. He stood up, pulled on his shoes, combed his hair into place with his fingers, and went to the front door. Opening it, he was less than impressed to find that there was nobody there. He was about to close it when the box on the doorstep caught his eye.

Crouching down, he picked up the box and examined it critically. It was large and square, and surprisingly light. It was addressed to him, the name and address clearly written in a neat, elegant handwriting. However, the postcode was missing and there was no postmark – it had clearly been hand delivered. He glanced up and down the street, but there was nobody in sight. With a slight shrug, he took the box inside, closed the door, and went through to the kitchen. Taking a pair of scissors from the drawer, he cut the through the tape across the top, and opened the box. He was faced with several plastic bags, which he carefully pushed to one side, revealing a strange, brown-coloured, rounded object. With a curious frown, he reached into the box, and lifted the item out into view, and came face to face with the upper part of a human skull.

With a surprised yell, he dropped the skull back into the box of plastic bags, backing away so quickly he walked into the kitchen worktop. He grabbed the worktop to stop himself from falling over, took a deep breath, and forced himself to calm down. He walked towards the box again, and the skull stared up at him almost sadly. In the depths of the box he could see the lower jaw of the skull, and something glinting in the light. Lewis went to the kitchen cupboard, and pulled out the house first aid kit – Val insisted on keeping one, and had reminded Lewis of its usefulness when redressing the gash on his forehead the other day. From the kit, he removed a pair of surgical gloves, so he wouldn't taint the evidence any further than he already had. He took a moment to telephone through to the station, asking the desk sergeant to get Morse and Dr Russell over to his house, giving as much information as he could.

Returning to the kitchen, he took a deep breath, and reached into the box, past the skull, and lifted out the item resting in the bottom. It was a leather dog collar – the metal buckle of the collar had been the glittering thing that had caught his eye. He put it down on the table carefully. Everything in the box was deeply stained with mud and soil. Lewis looked back at the skull.

"Poor girl," he murmured, "where've you been all this time, hey?"

Lewis went back through to the living room, and picked up his tea. He sank down into an armchair, and nursed the tea until it went cold. He had only one thought in mind – that the skull had been delivered to him by hand. The killer must have dug it up, boxed it, and either brought it to him or arranged to have it delivered. The killer, therefore, knew where he lived. He decided it was about time Val took the kids away to visit their grandparents in the north-east, even if it meant them having time off school.

He was startled from his reverie by the doorbell. He got up, and went to the door, somewhat more cautiously than he would have normally. He opened it, to find Dr Russell standing there, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Sergeant! You look terrible," she said, as he stood back to let her in, "for goodness sake – I think you should sit down before you fall down."

"Ah, it's just a bit of a cold," Lewis replied, with a half-smile, "thanks, though."

"The call from the station said you'd got a skull, or something?" Russell frowned, "I was a bit confused when they said it was at your home."

"Aye – through here, in the kitchen," Lewis gestured, "um… can I get you a cup of tea, doctor?"

"Oh, yes please," Russell gave him one of her dazzling smiles, "very civilised of you."

Lewis led the way into the kitchen, and as he put the kettle on, Dr Russell crossed to the table, already pulling on a pair of gloves.

"This was delivered to the house?" she said, curiously, fingering the cardboard box.

"Aye, less than an hour ago," Lewis replied, "I'm glad our Val's not around to see it, she'd go spare."

Russell reached in and lifted out the skull, examining it carefully. She put it down on the table, thoughtfully taking one of the plastic bags from the box first and putting it on the table beneath the skull. She then took out the jawbone, placing it next to the skull. She investigated the box and the dog collar, but found nothing else of interest.

"Anything leap out at you?" Lewis asked, passing her a mug of tea, as he dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, hunching over against a fit of coughing.

"You should be in bed," Russell commented, eyeing him, "you don't look at all well. Here, drink some…"

She passed him his tea mug, and Lewis took a grateful sip, wincing as he swallowed. Russell stripped off one of her gloves, and reached across, laying her palm on his forehead as he leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes, smothering another coughing fit.

"In my medical opinion, you should go and see your GP," she told him, pulling the gloves back on, "you're running a fever, and that cough's not good – sounds like you've picked up a nasty infection, probably from all that canal water you swallowed the other night."

Lewis tried to speak, but lost his words to another fit of coughing that him breathless and shaking. Russell winced in sympathy, and he glanced away, taking a mouthful of tea and swallowing it quickly.

"I'm in better nick than she is," he said, eventually, gesturing towards the skull with his mug.

"Yes, I suppose so," Russell raised another smile, "there's not a lot I can tell you, I'm afraid – it's all the hallmarks of one of your victims, especially with the dog collar… this is probably your first victim. There's plenty of dirt and soil, she was obviously buried…"

"So he dug up the skull and delivered it to me," Lewis said, glumly, "great."

Any further comment was interrupted by the doorbell. Lewis went to rise, but Russell held up a stern hand.

"I'll get it – you stay there."

She disappeared out into the hallway, and reappeared moments later with Morse in tow. He eyed the kitchen table, and pulled a face. Lewis supplied him with a mug of tea and a quick summary of events, as Russell carefully placed the skull and collar back in the box, much to Morse's relief.

"We couldn't find the body of the first victim because he buried her," Morse commented, eventually, as they all sat around the kitchen table, "his _modus operandi _changed after her – he found an easier way to dump the bodies… possibly digging a grave close to a canal was too much effort, or he was likely to get noticed."

"If he buried her near the canal at all," Lewis commented, hoarsely.

"Indeed," Morse agreed.

"An analysis of the dirt should tell us at least what kind of soil she was buried in," Russell told them, "in the meantime… I'll take this back to the lab," she said, patting the box next to her, "we'll go over it and the box with a fine tooth comb. Thank you for the tea, sergeant – and remember what I said!"

"Yes, thank you, doctor," Lewis nodded and smiled, tiredly.

Russell got up, picked up the box, smiled at them both and left quietly. Morse and Lewis sat in silence for a long moment.

"Where are your wife and kids, Lewis?" Morse asked, eventually.

"Shopping and school," Lewis replied, a grateful note in his voice, "I'm going to get Val to take the kids up north for a while, I think…"

"That's probably wise," Morse agreed, darkly, "what about you?"

"What about me?" Lewis shrugged, "I'll stay here, I suppose. I doubt he'll come here again – if he came here in the first place. He could've paid someone to deliver that parcel."

"We'll get someone out to interview the neighbours, see if they saw anything," Morse told him, "you'd better stay here and wait for your wife to come home."

"Aye sir," Lewis nodded, gratefully, "thanks for coming out, sir."

Morse nodded and finished his tea, and fixed his sergeant with a look; "I'm going to arrange for someone to keep an eye on the house, Lewis, just in case he comes back, or arranges another delivery. You stay here – and try to get some rest, you look done in."

Lewis simply nodded again, as Morse stood up to leave. He glanced back at his sergeant, who got to his feet wearily, and led him through to the front door.

"Thanks for all this, sir," Lewis said, and sighed, "I don't understand why he's doing it, sir – why's he leading us on like this? We've got nothing we can use to trace him down… it's like he taunting us, sir."

"Agreed, Lewis," Morse growled, "and I don't like it… still… just try to get some rest, alright?"

"Aye, sir," Lewis nodded, "I'll… see you tomorrow."

Morse nodded absently and then stepped out of the door and headed over to his car. Lewis closed the front door, and was suddenly wracked by another fit of coughing. He placed his hand to his chest as a stabbing pain shot through him, eliciting a groan. Taking shallow breaths, he staggered through into the lounge, collapsing onto the settee. He kicked off his shoes and grabbed a blanket from the back of the chair. Shivering and feverish, he lay down, and was almost immediately asleep.

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

Morse had been intending to go straight home, but his car seemed to have other ideas, and he found himself driving around aimlessly for over an hour, before pulling into the car park of a pub not far from Lewis's house. It was just after half twelve, but Morse had been up for most of the night anyway, so it felt like a good time for beer. He went to the bar and waited patiently to be served, ordering a pint of house ale. Leaning against the bar, he took a deep draught of the beer – it was hoppy, with a hint of honey, and a strong, bitter aftertaste. He enjoyed it, feeling the warming effect as he turned his mind to the puzzle of their clever, arrogant murderer. He was deep in thought and deep into his second pint when he was suddenly interrupted.

"Excuse me, sir," said a voice to his right, "would you happen to have the time?"

Morse glanced across at the dark-haired man who had spoken, suddenly shaken out of his train of thought.

"Oh! Yes, of course," he said, checking his watch, "it's just gone one o'clock."

"Thank you," said the man, with a smile, "left my watch at home. I'd forget my own head if it wasn't attached…"

The man turned his back and strode purposefully out of the bar. Morse turned away, irritated at the minor interruption. He was annoyed that the man had broken his chain of thought just as it was getting going, and… the man. His face was familiar. Too familiar. Morse's eyes widened fractionally – it was a very good match to the photo-fit put together with Wingate, the boat keeper… aside from the hair, and hair could be dyed…

Morse abandoned his pint only half-drunk, and dashed out of the bar, in time to see a red Ford Fiesta peal out of the car park at high speed. He jumped into his own car, gunned the engine, stalled it, swore loudly, fired it up again, hauled it out of the car park… and stopped. There was no sign of the Fiesta and he had no idea which direction it had gone in. Morse took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He told himself that he was probably seeing things, and that the man had been an innocent business man asking the time… yet he could not put his mind at rest.

He found himself driving back to Lewis's house. He was irritated with himself, and when he was irritated, he needed a drink and someone to shout at who wouldn't mind too much, and might actually say something that would help – and Morse knew that he would find both of these things at Lewis's house. He parked outside the front door, went up, rang the buzzer, and then felt a small pang of guilt as he remembered that he'd given the sergeant a day off sick, and the younger man had already had a shock that morning. He shrugged off the feeling, turning his collar up against the autumn breeze. Irritably, he pressed the doorbell again, wondering if the sergeant was asleep.

He heard coughing on the other side of the door, and the door opened on a security chain. Lewis recognised him, and quickly opened the door, letting him in, closing it firmly behind him. Morse suddenly felt bad for intruding again, but swallowed the feeling quickly. Truth be told, he was rattled by what had happened at the pub.

"Lewis," he said, "when the parcel was delivered earlier, did you see any cars in the street that you didn't recognise?"

"No, sir," Lewis shook his head, leaning heavily against the wall, "sorry… look, do you mind if we go through and… and sit down, sir… I…"

He broke off, coughing, smothering it with a handkerchief. Morse was appalled at his appearance – the younger man was pale, sweating and shaking, and he did not seem to be able to catch his breath.

"Yes, I think we'd better," he said, following Lewis into the living room, "are you sure you're alright, Lewis?"

"Fine, sir," Lewis dropped heavily onto the settee, trying to suppress a cough, "You've just missed our Val – when I told her what had happened, she packed three bags and went straight off to get the kids from school."

"Good," Morse nodded, as he located the drinks cabinet in the corner, "may I?"

Lewis nodded, wordlessly, leaning back in the chair, pressing one hand to his chest as he coughed into a handkerchief, Morse poured himself a measure of scotch, which he had a feeling Lewis only kept in the house for Morse's occasional visits there. He sat down in an armchair, and recounted to Lewis what had happened at the pub.

"Are you sure it was him?" wheezed Lewis, glancing over at him, a pained look on his face.

"Not entirely," Morse admitted, "but the comment he made about forgetting his own head… it rang a little too close to home…"

Lewis tried to speak, but broke off, coughing. Morse leaned forward in alarm, as the sergeant fought to catch his breath, wheezing horribly. He eventually managed to take a series of quick, shallow breaths, wiping his mouth with the handkerchief held in a shaking hand. Morse stared at him, noting the glassy look on his face, and the blue tint to his lips – cyanosis. Morse had seen enough victims of suffocation and strangulation to recognise that Lewis was not getting enough air into his lungs.

"I think we'd better get you to a doctor," he said, firmly, "come on, I'll drive you there…"

He watched as Lewis carefully stood up, and then, when the Sergeant stumbled, Morse grabbed his arm, supporting him as they crossed over to Morse's car. Lewis climbed into the passenger side, coughing weakly, slumped in the seat. Morse got into the driver's seat, and inserted the key into the ignition. He jumped, when the door behind him opened, and someone else jumped into the car.

"Don't make a sound, don't make a move," said a low voice, "I have a gun aimed at your back, Inspector. Now… do exactly as I tell you…"

~*~

Morse drove, going further out into the countryside. Eventually, the man made him pull over next to a field. He then got out of the car, keeping the gun trained on Morse at all times. He tied Morse's wrists with a cable tie, and then tied them to the steering wheel. He then dragged Lewis out of the car, and half-carried him off into a field. Morse's mind began to play through horrific scenarios as to what was going to happen to them. All too soon, the man came back, severed the cable tie binding Morse to the wheel, and pulled him out of the car.

"Where are we going?" Morse asked, unable to resist the pressure of the gun in his ribs.

The man did not reply as Morse was roughly pushed over a fence, onto a canal tow path. His heart sank, when he saw the boat moored nearby. Sure enough, he was ushered awkwardly aboard, and shoved down into the interior, his hands still bound. He stumbled, fell, and went sprawling across the floor. Moments later, he felt a vibration run through the boat as the engine started up, and Morse felt the movement as the boat pulled away from the side and began a slow journey down the canal.

Morse managed to push himself to his hands and knees, and heard a muffled noise. He glanced up, and gaped in surprise. He found himself staring straight into the terrified eyes of Dr Russell. She was bound and gagged, curled up on the floor. Morse quickly crossed over to her, and carefully pulled the cloth gag from her mouth.

"Morse! Thank God you're here," she gasped, "what's going on?"

"I was going to ask you the same question, but I think the answer is all too obvious…" Morse replied, glancing around at the interior of the boat, noting the copious amounts of plastic sheeting on the floor.

He managed to get to his feet, and saw a pair of wire cutters on the kitchen unit. He awkwardly managed to pick them up, and took them across to Dr Russell. He managed to cut through the ties that bound her wrists behind her back. She then took them off him, and cut the ties around her ankles and the one around his wrists. They both managed to get up, and Morse took a look around as Dr Russell knelt beside the bench-seat on which Lewis was slumped, apparently unconscious.

Morse investigated the portholes and the door at the end of the boat. The door was locked tight, and the portholes had been painted out with white paint. They, too, were locked. He turned back, the reality of the situation starting to sink in.

"How did you end up here?" Morse asked, keeping his voice low.

"He grabbed me as I was leaving Lewis's house – put me in the boot of my own car, can you believe it?" Russell sounded as if she didn't know whether to be afraid or affronted, "I've been here for some time, I'm afraid…"

She turned to look at Lewis, and Morse frowned. He seemed to be unconscious, and Morse could hear him struggling to breathe. Russell gently rested her hand on his forehead, and then rested her head on his chest, listening carefully for a few minutes. Lewis suddenly stirred, coughed, groaned, and mumbled something, feverishly incoherent.

"It's not a cold, is it, doctor?" Morse said, quietly, matter-of-factly.

"No," Russell shook her head, "I'd say – and this is a guess – bacterial pneumonia, from the canal water, I should think. He should be in hospital."

She straightened up and glanced around, retrieving a cushion from the opposite bench, using it as a pillow, and finding a blanket in a storage box under the seat, shook it out and draped it over the semi-conscious Lewis.

"Is there anything we can do?" Morse asked, quietly, feeling somewhat helpless.

"Not much," Russell admitted, her voice tight with worry, "he needs antibiotics – and probably oxygen treatment. I can try to keep the fever down, but I'm afraid he's somewhat more alive than my usual patients…"

She crossed over to the kitchen, and found a tea-towel. She ran it under the cold tap, wrung it out, folded it up, and gently mopped Lewis's face with it, and then draped it over his forehead, murmuring to him under her breath as she did so. Morse made another tour of the boat, but could not find any way out, and nothing that could helpfully be used as a weapon.

"Maybe we could overpower him," Russell suggested, though she did not sound confident.

"Maybe," Morse agreed, non-committal, "where's he taking us, anyway – and why us?"

"Some remote spot, I imagine," Russell shuddered, "he's, ah… already made his intentions clear as far as I'm concerned…"

"Let's not think about that just yet," Morse cut in, recalling finding several bin bags and cable ties in the otherwise empty kitchen drawers, mentally shying away from the thought.

Russell gave a shiver that had little to do with the chill in the air; "We may not have that luxury for long…"

~*~


	8. Chapter 8

Morse eventually gave up pacing around the boat, and sat down on the opposite bench to the one where Lewis lay. Russell had made it clear that the sergeant urgently needed medical treatment, but they both knew that until their captor made a move, there was nothing that they could do. Russell did her best to make the young man comfortable, but eventually came and sat beside Morse, who put his arm around her shoulders and offered what comfort he could. They sat like that for some time, until the engine of the boat suddenly cut out, and there was a gentle bump as the boat no doubt hit the towpath for mooring.

They both tensed as the door opened, and their captor slowly entered, a gun held out in front of him, as he walked down the steps and closed the door behind him.

"Good evening," he said, in a polite, cultured voice – the same voice Morse had heard in the pub earlier, "you three have put me to quite some inconvenience, you know."

"Why have you brought us here?" Morse demanded, in a low voice.

"Don't pretend that you don't know," the man said, lightly, "I started to worry when the sergeant over there almost came across my boat in the dark the other night and all but walked into me. Then I got really worried when the man I asked for the time in a pub – on my way to get the sergeant, I might add – turns out to be the famed Inspector Morse, who is, according to the newspapers, out to get me."

"What about Dr Russell? She's never seen you before."

"No," the man smiled, "but I've seen her – I was watching as she left the sergeant's house. I decided then and there, I wanted her next…"

He grinned at Dr Russell, who glanced away quickly. Morse bristled, shifting slightly on the bench, so that he was positioned between their captor and the doctor. The man laughed at them, a disturbing sound.

"Normally, I would chastise you, Chief Inspector," he said, "and demand that things be 'ladies first'. However, I think I will need to dispose of you and the sergeant first… I see you've escaped your bonds, so first things first…"

He reached into his pocket, and took out some cable ties, throwing them on the floor.

"Tie her wrists," he ordered, pointing the gun at Morse, "do it, or I'll kill one of you. Trust me – there's no-one for miles around. No-one will hear."

"So if I don't do something, you'll kill us, and after I've done it, you'll kill us in any event;" Morse pointed out, "do it yourself. I refuse."

The man growled a curse, and came forwards slowly, keeping the gun levelled at Morse. He was stood between the two benches. He crouched down, carefully, never taking his eyes off Morse and Russell, as he picked up a couple of the cable ties, holding them out to Morse.

"Do it, or you die."

Morse simply shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. The silence was broken by a sudden cough from Lewis, which made their captor jump and turn slightly. Morse lunged, grabbing the man's right hand, going for the gun. He forced his arm up, and the gun went off, a deafening report in the close confines of the boat, blowing a hole in the ceiling. The boat rocked with the sudden movement, pitching them both to one side. The gun went flying, and Morse saw Dr Russell dive after it. Distracted, he was caught off-guard by the punch that sent him sprawling into the other bench, as his assailant stumbled and fell to his knees.

Stunned, Morse groaned, and tried to get up, sitting on the bench, nursing his jaw. He braced himself for another attack, but none came. He looked up, to find Russell sitting on the floor, staring at him, wide-eyed. Lewis was propped up on one elbow, his face sheet-white, the other arm outstretched. He had the gun, and had it trained on their attacker, who sat glowering up at him on the floor. Morse moved quickly, snatched up a cable tie, and bound the man's wrists behind his back. He bound his ankles for good measure, and left him lying face-down on the floor. He glanced up at Russell, who simply nodded quickly, letting him know that she was alright.

Morse retrieved the gun from Lewis, who all but collapsed back onto the bench. He held the gun out to Russell, who took it carefully, even as she was checking on Lewis.

"Well done, Lewis," Morse murmured, appreciatively, thought he doubted the young man could hear him.

"What do we do now?" Russell asked, hesitantly, still holding the gun nervously, "we really need to get him to hospital, before it's too late."

"Do you know how to use that?" Morse asked.

"Oh yes," she nodded, "one of my brothers and I used to go to a shooting club together. I can keep an eye on him… and Sergeant Lewis… If you can find a way to get help…?"

The bound man laughed again.

"You'll need to cut me free – I can guarantee that I'm the only one who can steer this boat," he told them "and if you want to get the sergeant there to a hospital, that is."

"I think we'll manage without your assistance," Morse growled at him, retrieving the keys from the man's trouser pocket, "doctor, if you need me, please just shout…"

~*~

It took Morse some time to figure out the controls of the boat, but he soon had it working. He left the door open so that he could see inside – their captor now captive on the floor, and Dr Russell keeping a close eye on him. He powered the boat along the canal, keeping his eyes open for any sign of life – and any sign of his car. It was late evening now, and dark – he could not distinguish one field from another, and lost track of time and distance. For all he knew, they had sailed right by the car in the darkness. Suddenly, however, his hopes rose, when he saw flashing blue lights in the distance. He could also see the lights of various torches along the towpath, so he cut the engine and let the boat drift towards the bank.

"Over here!" he shouted, waving, "hey! Over here!"

~*~

Dr Russell perched on the edge of the bench, next to Lewis. Their captive murder suspect lay motionless, face-down on the floor, his wrists bound behind him, ankles similarly secured. He made no noise, and Russell resisted any urge to touch him, move him, or incite conversation. She kept the gun in her right hand, and her left hand rested lightly on Lewis's brow. She was hugely concerned for the young man, who had not regained consciousness since his effort to grab the gun during their earlier scuffle. She could feel the boat moving forwards and silently cursed its slow speed. Eventually, the engine cut out, and she heard Morse shouting. There were other voices, too; a bump as the boat hit the towpath, and, suddenly, several uniformed police officers were swarming into the boat, Morse in the middle of them, controlling the chaos.

"Get him out of here," Morse pointed to the man on the floor, "arrest him and caution him for murder, assault, assaulting a police officer, kidnapping, and anything else you can think of. Put him in a cell; I'll speak to him later. And get an ambulance out here!"

The man was dragged away, and one of the officers held out an evidence bag to Dr Russell, who dropped the gun inside it quickly, making sure the safety catch was on, and the officer whisked it away.

"Is… is Sergeant Lewis okay, sir?" one of the officers asked, cautiously.

"Does he bloody look alright?" Morse snapped.

"I'm sure he'll be fine, if we can get him to hospital," Russell replied, soothingly, "I don't suppose you've recovered my car, have you?"

"Both of them, ma'am, sir," the constable replied, with a quick nod, "it's how we found you – someone called in a dumped red Jaguar he thought must have been stolen – when we ran the plates and found out it was yours, sir, we had lads on the scene in a flash."

Morse ignored him, and sat down on heavily on the bench. He clasped his hands together under his chin and rested his elbows on his knees. That, he hoped, disguised how much his hands were shaking. He was exhausted and his nerves were shot. Someone came and threw a red blanket around his shoulders, and a plastic cup was thrust into his hands and hot, sweet tea poured from a thermos flask. Activity swarmed around him in a distant blur, and he was only vaguely aware of the arrival of some paramedics. Dr Russell came and sat beside him, and he put his arm around her shaking shoulders as she finally allowed herself to break down, crying quietly into his shoulder.

"Sir," said a quiet voice, above him and to his left, "they're taking the Sarge to the Radcliff now… I can give you a lift if you like?"

"That won't be necessary," Morse said, firmly, "I'll take my car, thank you… doctor, would like to…?"

"Yes," she nodded, quickly, "yes, please… can you arrange to have my car driven back to my lab, please?"

"Yes, ma'am," the constable nodded, accepting the keys she held out.

Morse got up, and climbed awkwardly from the boat onto the towpath, gallantly holding out his hand to help the doctor step down somewhat more elegantly. They trudged back through the field in darkness, guided by two constables with torches. Morse's spirits rose slightly when he saw his beloved car waiting for them on the grass verge. He opened the door for the doctor, closing it carefully after her, and then got in and sat there for a long moment.

"Are you alright, Morse?" Russell asked, quietly.

"Not really," he said, quietly, "you?"

"No," she admitted.

Morse nodded, started the engine, and, hauling the Jag around in a tight three point turn, drove off back towards Oxford.

~*~

Morning came, and Morse knew it must be morning, because the staff at the hospital had changed over at some point. He glanced at his watch. It was, in fact, six-thirty am, and he groaned, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. He desperately wanted a drink, a shower, a shave and some sleep – possibly even in his bed rather than on the settee. He and Dr Russell sat side by side in a small waiting area next to a corridor, drinking foul vending machine tea, and staring blankly at the floor. They had exhausted their small talk hours ago, and had even dozed a little. Now, they just waited.

Morse was startled from his reverie when Russell suddenly stood up.

"Enough's enough," she said, an edge of determination in her voice, "I'm going to find out what's going on – we've been here for four hours already, they must know something by now. Will you wait here?"

"Of course," Morse nodded, wondering where else he would go.

Russell strode off, and returned less than half an hour later with a very nervous looking consultant.

"I'm sorry," stammered the woman, "nobody told me you were here. My name is Dr. Rowheath – I understand you're here with Mr. Lewis?"

"Sergeant Lewis," Morse corrected her, getting to his feet, "what can you tell us?"

"Dr Russell's initial diagnosis is correct," Rowheath replied, glancing at each of them in turn, "we believe Mr… Sorry, Sergeant... Lewis is suffering from bacterial pneumonia. We've done an ABG which shows his blood oxygen was dangerously low – chest x-rays shows extensive build-up of fluid in his lungs, and we've sent blood samples off to the lab to confirm which bacterium is causing it, but we've already begun treatment with intravenous antibiotics. The good news is that he's breathing unassisted and his blood oxygen levels have increased over the past couple of hours with oxygen treatment."

"We would like to see him, please," Russell said.

The consultant hesitated, and then nodded, reluctantly. Morse had a feeling that Russell outranked the other woman in some way, but he did not pry further. He followed the two women down the corridor, listening as they spoke in the odd, acronym-laden language of medical professionals. Eventually, they came to a ward, and Dr Rowheath indicated a side room.

"He's in there," she said, "please, not too long – he needs to rest."

Russell thanked her and Rowheath nodded, disappearing back the way they had come. Morse glanced down at her and gestured in a 'ladies first' manner. She smiled at him tiredly, and stepped inside.

The side room was in semi-darkness, as the curtains were drawn. Russell twitched them back slightly, allowing a little more light in, rather than turn up the dimmed overhead lights. Morse sighed, and rubbed a hand over his jaw. To him, Lewis looked at death's door – he was still pale and sweating, there was an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, and two IV tubes snaked into the back of his left hand, drip-feeding him fluids and antibiotics. Morse glanced away, suddenly uncomfortable, while Dr Russell went over and examined some of the monitors.

"He's actually doing really well," she murmured, approvingly, "Dr Rowheath was saying he might be discharged in a few days, without needing to drain his lungs. He's going to have a nasty cough for the next few weeks, though."

Morse made a non-committal noise, and sat down in the armchair next to the bed. Russell sat down in a plastic chair on the other side of the bed, gently holding Lewis's left hand, mindful of the IV tubes. Lewis stirred slightly, and Morse raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise when he realised that, from the bed, Lewis was looking at him with half-open eyes and a wan smile. The younger man reached up with his right hand, removing the oxygen mask with some difficulty.

"Morning, sir," he croaked, barely audible, "Dr Russell…"

"Morning, Lewis," Morse said, unable to hide his surprise, "I thought you were asleep."

Lewis managed a small shake of his head.

"Did you… did you get him?" Lewis asked, and Morse winced to hear the hoarseness of his voice.

"Yes," Morse nodded, "thanks to you. Good catch with the gun, Lewis. He's in a cell down at the station, and he's going to sit there and rot until I'm good and ready to speak to him."

"Who is he?"

Morse paused – in all that had happened, he realised that he still had no clue as to the name or identity of their suspect, and he shook his head slowly.

"Don't worry about it," he replied, as reassuringly as he could, "you need to get some rest."

"Agreed," Russell smiled, reaching over and slipping the oxygen mask back into place, "doctor's orders."

Lewis gave her a small smile, and Russell gently squeezed his fingers. She leaned across, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, and then she gestured for Morse to follow her out of the room.

"Come on," she told him, closing the door behind them, "he's going to be fine. I, on the other hand, could do with a lift home…?"

"Your wish is my command, doctor," Morse smiled, holding out his arm, "shall we?"

~*~


	9. Chapter 9

A few days later, Lewis was discharged from the hospital with strict instructions to rest and recuperate. Val, who had returned from Newcastle with their children as soon as she heard the news that he was in hospital, collected him and drove him home. He had spent a long time reassuring her that he was fine, and that the killer had been caught, and there was no danger. Relieved to be home, he dropped onto the settee, coughing heavily – the doctors had warned him that he would probably carry on with the cough for several weeks.

"Dad!"

The delighted scream of Lynn, his daughter, woke him from his reverie.

"Hello, pet!" he exclaimed, and swept her up in a bear hug, then quickly holding her to one side, coughing painfully into a handkerchief until his eyes watered.

"Are you okay, dad?" Lynn asked, concern written all over her face.

"I'm fine, pet," Lewis reassured her, "where's your brother?"

Lynn was saved from a reply as her younger brother came flying into the living room and leapt excitedly onto his father, sparking another bout of coughing and hugs.

"Okay, that's enough," Val's cultured Oxford tones cut through the noise and excitement, "come on, kids, leave your father in peace for a while, he needs to rest."

The two of them scrambled off excitedly, and went out to play in the garden. Val handed her husband a cup of tea, and he smiled up at her gratefully. Val opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the doorbell.

"Oh, now what?" she groaned, as Lewis went to get up, "no, you stay there, you're resting, got it? Two weeks at least, the doctor said."

She went out into the corridor, and Lewis leaned back, sipped his tea, and wondered if he had enough paint left in the shed to do the ceiling tomorrow. He was already thinking about nipping down to the hardware shop for some new paintbrushes when Val came back into the room.

"He's in here… tea, Morse?"

"Ah… yes, please. Milk and two sugars."

Lewis quickly sat up straight and tried to comb his hair into shape with his hand. All pretence at being presentable was lost, however, as a fit of coughing overtook him. Morse raised an eyebrow at him, sat down in an armchair, and waited until he had caught his breath.

"Sorry, sir," Lewis said, at last, with an apologetic smile.

"Don't be," Morse grunted, "how are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you, sir," he nodded, "thinking of painting the ceiling tomorrow."

"Don't even think about it," Val told him, materialising from the doorway with a cup of tea for Morse, "the doctors told you to rest, remember?"

"Aye, well," Lewis replied, evasively, "we'll see, hey? Thanks, pet."

Val smiled, and left the room, leaving them to talk. Morse sipped at the hot tea, and savoured it. They sat in a companionable silence for a few minutes, until Morse finally spoke.

"His name is Jeremy Jackson," Morse said, at last, darkly, "he's twenty-five years old, and a college drop-out. Fifteen years ago, his father murdered his mother in front of him. The father died in prison, and young Jeremy spent what was left of his childhood bouncing around various care homes and foster parents. His juvenile record includes shoplifting, joyriding, petty theft, and animal cruelty."

Lewis's eyebrows raised slightly, and Morse nodded in understanding.

"I know," he said, grimly, "social services should have seen it coming. Anyway, when he turned 18, he dropped off the radar a bit – about two years before he killed his first victim."

Lewis shuddered, recalling the skull that had been deposited in a box on his doorstep.

"He refuses to tell us anything," Morse continued, with a sigh, "he won't identify the unknown first and fifth victims, if he even knows their names… he won't tell us what he took from the fifth victim. He just… sits there and smiles."

There was another long moment of silence. Lewis sipped at his tea, and glanced across at Morse. The older man looked tired, pale and haunted. Lewis stood up slowly, and crossed to the corner of the room, where there was a large, locked cabinet. He reached up, and took the key from the top of the cabinet, unlocking it carefully, and opened the door. He reached in, and removed a bottle and a pint glass.

"I believe this is one of your brands, sir?" he said, holding up the bottle of ale.

Morse managed to raise the ghost of a smile; "Very kind of you, Lewis – I'm glad to see you're finally learning some good taste."

"I can't join you, I'm afraid – doctor's orders," Lewis told him, as he carefully poured the drink into the glass, "but you look like you need this."

"I do," Morse said, darkly, as he accepted the drink, "thanks."

He drank deeply, and savoured the taste, as Lewis sat down again, holding his hand up to cover a cough as he did so. He rubbed his chest absently – it still felt sore, and it hurt to cough, but he'd been assured that this was normal and he would get over it soon.

"There's a preliminary hearing in front of a magistrate tomorrow morning, block listed for ten o'clock," Morse told him, "so it could come up at any time during the morning. I've asked that you be excused, Lewis – there should be more than enough evidence for the indictment from myself and Dr Russell."

"Is she okay, sir? Dr Russell, I mean," Lewis asked, "Only, I don't really remember much, see."

"She's fine, Lewis," Morse assured him, "we all are. Jackson's refused all offers of Counsel, and he's not spoken since we brought him in. He did it – we know he killed those girls – but he won't speak. If he pleads insanity, Lewis…"

Morse left the thought hanging, shaking his head, taking a drink. He had never known a man who made his skin crawl so much as the silent, smiling killer who had stared across the table at him for nearly four hours, without giving so much as a 'yes' or a 'no' to any of the questions asked. The man was clearly intelligent, despite his apparent lack of education, and he could adopt the charming persona to wile a woman away to his boat, and the steely, tight-jawed statue Morse had been interviewing on and off for several days.

He sipped his beer, scowling. He was worried – their forensic evidence to hold the man to the murders was negligible, and although they could pin him for assault against Lewis and their joint abductions, Morse knew that it would not be enough to put the man away for as long as he deserved – especially if he got himself sectioned and ended up in some medium security hospital, where he could con the doctors into believing him sane within a few short years.

Morse said as much to Lewis, and when no reply was forthcoming, Morse glanced up, and realised that the younger man had fallen asleep, half a cup of tea still balanced precariously in his hand. Morse suppressed an amused smile.

"Good grief, Lewis," he muttered.

He got up, finished his beer, retrieved the mug from Lewis's unresisting grip, and took the mug and the glass through to the kitchen, where he made his goodbyes to Val, before leaving quietly, and heading home.

~*~

Less than a week later, Morse found himself sitting in the Oxford Crown Court. To his left sat Dr. Russell, who looked elegant in a black skirt and jacket, with her hair tied back neatly. Lewis sat on his right, trying not to cough, still wheezing a little, and also wearing a smart black suit and tie. They had spent several days combing through the evidence in front of the Judge, had given their evidence, and had been heavily cross-examined by the Judge – Jackson still refused to speak in his own defence and had declined Counsel – he had not said a word through the trial save to confirm his name and address and to confirm his 'not guilty' plea. The three of them were exhausted – Lewis in particular, who had spent almost all of the previous day on the stand recounting elements of the investigation, the assault against him on the towpath, the delivery of the skull to his house, and the eventual abduction and escape.

They had returned for the final day of the hearing, as the Judge prepared to give sentence. The jury was filed in – Morse was concerned that their deliberations had not taken very long. The court usher entered in his long black robes, and called for the Court to rise. Morse stood with the others, bowed as the Honourable Justice Margaret Hayes entered the room, and sat once she had taken her seat. Lewis stifled a cough, rubbing his face, looking haggard. Morse felt a twinge of sympathy – Lewis had been meant to have two weeks' medical leave, Morse would have probably allowed him at least one, but a major fraud trial had fallen through at the last minute, and rather than dismiss the jury, they had brought forward Jackson's trial, so the Sergeant had not even been out of hospital for a full day before they had to put in a full days' work to prepare for trial and another four days in the trial itself – as Jackson was representing himself, there were no arguments from the defence to stall for more time.

Morse and Lewis had worked long hours over the past few days, and at one point on the previous day, Morse had been seriously considering sending Lewis back to the hospital, let alone home. Still, they had needed the younger man's testimony, so here he sat, wheezing like an asthmatic and pretending to ignore the irritated stares he got every time he coughed.

"Good morning," said the Judge, in a voice that could cut through a diamond, "thank you all for coming back. Mr Jackson, this is your final opportunity. You have declined to speak at all during this trial, in your own defence, or in cross examining the witnesses. Do you have anything to say to this Court before the jury gives its decision?"

Jackson simply shook his head slowly, and the Judge stared down at him.

"Very well," she said, "let the Court record show that Mr Jackson was given every opportunity to speak in his defence and declined to do so, save to enter his plea of not guilty. I have cross-examined the witnesses myself to test their evidence to my satisfaction, but in no attempt to speak in the defence of the defendant."

She turned to the jury, and the foreman, an elderly Asian gentleman, got to his feet expectantly. At the prompting of the usher, Jackson also stood.

"Foreman of the Jury," said Judge Hayes, "has the Jury reached a unanimous decision?"

"We have, Your Honour," the man replied, with a respectful bow.

"And do you find the defendant, Mr Jeremy Andrew Jackson, guilty or not guilty?"

"On the charge of five counts of murder," the foreman replied, reading from a sheet of paper, "we find the defendant… not guilty."

"What?" Morse hissed, incredulously, amidst murmurings of others in the court, Russell and Lewis amongst them.

Judge Hayes called the court to order, irritably, and urged the foreman to continue.

"On the charge of two counts of assault against a police officer, we find the defendant guilty," the man continued, "On the charge of three counts of kidnapping, we find the defendant guilty."

"Thank you," the Judge inclined her head, "I express for the court record my gratitude for the services of the Jury and my endorsement of their findings. I would have found for myself the forensic evidence against Mr Jackson to be inconclusive. It is possible that he killed five women… it is also possible that he is of unsound mind and merely believes that he killed those women, or for some reason known only to himself, thinks that he may have been accused of killing those women, a thought which drove him to the abduction of two police officers and a pathologist involved in the case. We have no psychiatric reports to refer to, and despite the urgings of the court, Mr Jackson has declined all offers of representation. In considering my sentence, I also take into account the premeditation and planning Mr Jackson undertook in the commissioning of his offences against Chief Inspector Morse, Sergeant Lewis and Dr Russell, and the effect that it has had upon them. Mr Jackson, I therefore sentence you to ten years imprisonment. The custody officer will see you to your cell where you will await transport to prison. My sentence is passed."

She picked up the gavel, and banged it down, signalling the end. She stood, and the rest of those in the Courtroom stood as well, bowing as the Judge left. The custody sergeants stepped forward to take Jackson into custody, but, from the secure dock, he suddenly swung around and slammed his hands on the glass, staring furiously up at Morse, Lewis and Russell.

"I'll kill you, you bastards, and you, you bitch!" he screamed, as the others present in court stared in open shock, "do you hear me? I'll pick you off, one by one, you're all dead, do you hear me? Dead!"

He was dragged away, and Morse sank back onto the bench. Russell and Lewis sat down as well, as others began to file out of the court.

"Ten years," Morse sighed, "he'll be out in six with good behaviour."

"Aye sir," Lewis agreed, despondently, "I…my evidence…did I… what did I do wrong? Did I miss something?"

"No, Lewis," Morse said, quietly, "no, none of us did. Come on, let's go to the pub, I think we all need a drink."

~*~

Morse took them all to one of his favourite pubs, where Dr Russell insisted on buying the drinks, bringing them back to the table, where they all sat in silence for a long time.

"I still don't believe it," Russell said, at last, glancing away, "only ten years…"

"Aye," Lewis said, tiredly, "our Val was terrified when she found out the guy knew where we lived…"

"At least he's off the streets," Russell tried to sound optimistic.

"Yes," Morse agreed, darkly, "but my concern is that he'll soon be back on them."

He picked up his pint, and the others copied his example as they finished their drinks in sombre silence. There was nothing else that they could do.

~*~ Finis ~*~


End file.
